


A Memory of Winter

by OneLineInTheSand



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 1940s Bucky Barnes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesiac Bucky Barnes, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Artist Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Concentration Camps, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I Promise it Ends Happy, M/M, Memory Loss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Torture, Psychological Trauma, Sam Wilson is a Saint, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-28 23:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17796713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneLineInTheSand/pseuds/OneLineInTheSand
Summary: Of course, no one had ever heard of the Winter Soldier. Or Captain America. It was stupid, when he thought about it. Utterly ridiculous: the idea of a fully articulating metal prosthetic that worked like a normal arm. The idea of a super soldier, or of a serum to cure all ills, even asthma and scoliosis.“If there were a Captain America, it wouldn’t be me.” Steve lifted his shoulders, his focus on the buttons he was doing up on Bucky’s new shirt. He finished by rolling up Bucky’s left sleeve and pinning it.But it would be.Bucky huffed a little disbelieving sound. It certainly wouldn’t be anyone else. He couldn’t think of anyone who deserved health, strength, and a long life more. One hand rested on Bucky’s left shoulder above the stub that remained—and squeezed. “You ready?” Steve turned Bucky a little, and Bucky’s eyes flitted past him to the cracked mirror mounted on the wall of the little apartment, where his gaunt and tired reflection stared back at him."I suppose..." If anyone was looking to hire a one-armed ghost...





	1. Who the hell is Bucky?

 

 _Pain searing through his damaged collarbone and right arm, body listing to the left in a dangerous stagger as he swung for a punch, metal gleaming in the firelight. Pain, pain, pain… His arm. His arm hurt…_  
_"You know me."_  
_“No I don’t!”_

“Stop… stop. Please stop. Don’t touch it…”  
“Sergeant Barnes.”  
“Please… please, no…”

_“Bucky… you’ve known me your whole life….” Glint of metal… the shield, protective in front of the blond’s body. “Your name… is James Buchanan Barnes.” Body aching, heart pounding, blood roaring in his ears. James Buchanan Barnes._

“Sergeant James Barnes, 107th, 32557038… S-Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes…” Couldn't forget... He couldn't forget who he was... They'd try to make him forget. 

_“Shut up!” He was screaming, staggering forward again, swinging…_

“Make it stop. Please, God, make it stop…”

_“I’m not gonna fight you… you’re my friend.” A clatter… the red-white-and-blue shield winking out of sight, spinning away into the river below… He staggered. Pain… so much pain._

“Please… please stop…”

 _He lunged again, took the man down, collapsing to the metal supports along with the body of his Mark, and his fist swung once, twice, three times._  
_“You’re my mission.” It was over. The mission would be over. The pain would be over… All around him, it burned. Fire. Heat. Metal creaking, breaking… He heard the sickening thump of metal against flesh. Why…. Why won’t you fight back?  
_ _“Then finish it…” Blood… blood on the silver plates of the arm… and that voice… that voice he knew… Why… why did he know it…?_

“Don’t touch me!”

 _“Stand down, soldier! Hold him down… restrain him…”  
_ _The soldier with his shield was gone. In his place cold, hard voices, a stiff, leather chair, the crackle and whine of electronics… or was it fire and smoke in his nostrils…?_

“Sergeant… it’s alright. You’re safe. We’re administering painkillers—”  
“Don’t touch me. Don’t _touch_ me!” The words were ripped from him, as if each one physically scraped across his throat as he spoke. He huddled, cradling his right arm in against his chest. _Not that one too… please._ He’d failed. He’d failed at his Mission. He couldn’t do it.  
“Sergeant.”  
“Don’t.”  
“We’re here to help you.” _That’s what they always say._ He moved in a split second, fingers grasping at the white-coat’s lapel, tugging the body down, going for the throat. Voices rose sharp and urgent around him. “Sedate him… put him under.” The pinch of cold metal under his skin chilled him to the bone. His breathing slowed, his vision blurred and faded away to velvety black.  

************

The white coats came and went. They spoke mostly French, and very few words that he knew. He didn’t answer them and rarely looked at them. He drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of footsteps, rustling sheets, the clink of metal—syringes on the silver trays, glaring lights shone in his eyes. He hurt in nearly every part of his body. Most things he was fed came back up, burning all the way up his throat, but even the pain faded away when they fed the drugs into his body through the IV. Noises became less sharp, the smells around him less nauseating, the visitors less jarring. His memory started to settle into hours.

A book was left on his bedside table… an old, weathered book of comics, and along with it came a face not familiar yet soothing: the first American voice he heard in an eternity. “You’re going home, Sergeant.” Home. What home was there left for him after what he’d done? The moments of lucidity came with that voice and face. He could sit up.. ask questions—Where was he?  France. How long had he been there? Three weeks. What happened to his arm? It’d been too damaged. It had to be amputated. How soon was he leaving…? Soon... as soon as he was well enough. 

The questions flickered away in the dim, dull ship’s hull, and he was sick again: cold, shivering, keeping little food down. Home was gone. The years had wound on, he had changed, and there was no one left. He couldn’t trust them… Some days… some days he wanted to trust them, when he huddled in a chair and ate whatever thin, flavorless food he could stomach. Others he lunged out of his bed, going for the throat, and was strapped down, haunted and mute. _You’re going home, Sergeant…._ Home was gone… 

************ 

“Bucky.”   _Bucky? … Who the hell is Bucky?_ Cold leather straps pressed down across his body—chest, arms, hips. The sounds in the room had changed. No crisp rustle of staff uniforms, no poking or prodding, no cold metal under his skin, filling his veins with god knew what. His eyes opened a little, then closed again and his face scrunched up against the sharp light.  

“Ma’am, he’s not always aware of his surroundings.” He squinted cautiously up as his vision adjusted to the lighting, and the face of his visitor came into focus. He could make out her profile. She had a fine, straight noise, soft cheekbone, a dimpled chin; there was something undeniably familiar about her, from the dark brown hair pulled back in a neat bun to the voice he was so absolutely certain he'd heard before, more times than he could even count. It ached deep in his chest. He seemed to catch the soft smell of oak-wood. A crowded room flickered through his memory--table, stove, wash-basin, a creaky box-spring mattress on the janky bed frame, straw-stuffed dolls, old books with worn yellow pages, and the bright laughter of her voice as she stretched her fingers up to reach the stuffed toy he was holding just out of reach. _“James Buchanan!”_ He _knew_ her. His abdomen tensed, and he twisted, but the attempt to move met with a jolt, and his skin burned where the leather chafed at it, still raw and red. He parted his dry lips, peeling his tongue off the roof of his mouth, and managed a raspy noise nothing like the name on the tip of his tongue.

“Please can’t you take the restraints off?”

“I’m sorry, ma’am… He’s been unstable—erratic.”

“Becca.” The word was rasped from a painfully dry throat. He could've cried from relief, just managing the single word. His bleary eyes blinked up at her as she turned, and a cool hand rested on his cheek. 

“He’s my brother. He’ll be better with me. I’m taking him home.” The shaky tone evened into stern resolve. Never the one to back down. “Scared me to death, you idiot.” She bit her lip. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. He coughed.

“Sorry…?” His voice was faint. She laughed weakly, and his breath caught at a soft click and tug, and the pressure across his chest was relieved. 

“It doesn’t matter.” Her voice quavered just a little as she undid the second strap and freed his hand. He rolled his wrist carefully and turned his head against her palm, and he registered the ache of his chest as he took his first full, deep breath in an eternity. The fingers of his right hand scrubbed over his face and brushed the fringe of hair at the crown of his head. His hair was short, soft, and fuzzy--not at all thick and long as he'd thought. When had it been shaved off...? His fingers carded shakily through it, maybe an inch long at best?

“We’re going home… I’m taking you home.” Becca touched his hand, which tensed under the contact and dropped to the bed. She looked so strained, and a little tear track was making a path down her cheek. “You… you remember who you are, don’t you?”

“Sergeant James Barnes, 107th, 32557038.” The answer came mechanically. Another tear followed the first, and she nodded, stroking her thumb over his knuckles.

“You always preferred Bucky,” she told him. _Bucky_ … The same name from the voice he'd heard just before the hospital--the voice pleading with him: _Your name is James Buchanan Barnes..._  He turned his hand over, and his weak fingers curled around hers as she leaned forward and buried her face against his shoulder. As he felt her clinging to him, felt the warmth creeping back into his tired limbs, he wasn’t sure if it was him or her, whether the words were aloud or in his head, but a soft phrase repeated over and over, like a whispered litany: _You’re alive… you’re alive, you’re alive._


	2. Don't win the war till I get there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You never went to war.” The words spoke themselves almost. Steve shifted and moved up beside him. His legs slipped through the rails and dangled. Bucky could see his toes at the end of the threadbare socks he wore. Holes. Steve always had holes in his socks. It was why he always stuffed the ends of his shoes with newspaper.  
> “No,” Steve confirmed softly. “They wouldn’t take me. I tried.”

_Bucky..._

_People are gonna die, Buck…_

_“Please, no…”_

_Was that his voice…? His breath was rattling in his own ears as if he were struggling to breathe. “Please…”  The faces of the victims in front of him, wide and sunken eyes, ashen pale faces, thin… so thin. So sickly looking. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t watch. That voice echoing in his head again and again. ‘People are gonna die, Buck… I can’t let that happen.’ The crisp click of a bullet sliding into place. The twist in his gut, his fingers curling, breath slowing as his eyes fixed immovably on the gaunt, ghostlike faces before him._

His eyes snapped open at the clatter of a pan. His heart beat so hard it hurt. He curled his arm against his chest, struggling to slow down his breath as Becca padded over to him where he sat on the couch.

“How’re you feeling?” A blanket was tucked around his shoulders.

“Okay.” He covered Becca’s wrist with his hand and gave it a squeeze. _Thank you._ She smiled back at him as he closed his eyes again. His heartbeat was slowly settling back to something normal. It was easier here than the hospital: no more sterile smell, no strangers coughing, rustling, or shuffling around his bed, or poking and prodding him every few hours. He’d been settled on the couch during the daytime, or the balcony when he needed a little sunshine and air. There were some months of warmth left before  Becca’s husband had moved it over so he could lie in the sunlight early in the mornings. It warmed him when he woke shivering, whether from actual chill or dreams that left him feeling sick and cold.

“I’ll get you some food in a couple minutes. You just lie down.” She patted his hand. He could smell the food—thankfully mild: for once it didn’t make him want to roll over and empty his already weak stomach. Warm, hearty, but mild broth with little shreds of meat and some bland crackers, just like they used to have when they were sick as kids. Another day… another day he’d tease her about turning into their ma. He was too damn grateful for it right now.

“How is he?” The voices drifted into his half-conscious mind. His fingers stirred under the quilt Becca had settled over him as he lay down to rest with the food heavy in his stomach. It seemed easier to sleep with a full stomach. He could hardly remember a time since he joined up when he really felt full in a contented way. The food was miserable most of the time. In the hospital, it came back up too often.

“Better.” A gentle hand smoothed the blanket over his shoulders. “He’s not awake very often, but he’s keeping the food down.”

“Is it okay if I…?” Hesitation.  He heard the soft creak of an old wooden chair nearby.

“Of course. You’re always welcome here. Stay as long as you like. Dinner’s in an hour.”

He liked the sound of activity in the house. Those noises reminded him of where he was—not some lab or hospital or… somewhere much, much worse. The clatter of pans, the shuffle of footsteps, the sound of the little one squealing or crying were all good sounds. He much preferred the household noises to silence. Silence left room for the darker things to creep from the corners of his mind. He turned his head as he heard footsteps, voices, the soft _click_ as a flame lit under a burner in the kitchen adjacent. Another sound rasped close by his head, newer, but also familiar: soft scratching. He didn’t need to look to imagine the soft lead tracing light lines across paper. It went still for a moment. He turned his head and opened his eyes, squinting as they adjusted to the light. Another person sat by Bucky’s couch, outlined in the pale light from the window, a pencil resting on his top lip and a sketchbook propped on one knee. Steve's expression changed to a shy smile when Bucky stirred.

“Hey." Bucky braced an elbow on the cushion to push himself up, and Steve quickly shuffled aside the pencil and book to help him. “Hey… what do you need?” Bucky caught at his bony shoulder with his hand.  The serum. Project Rebirth. The Howlies, the war, Zola, the train, HYDRA, Triskelion... Just like that, they all turned to phantoms: dust and ash. This wasn’t that Steve. Was it? Bucky twisted on the couch, and Steve turned his head. He could’ve fit two of Steve on that chair where he sat. Small… Steve was _small_ …  Was the serum not permanent after all? Had he hurt Steve badly enough that it reversed..? That didn’t make sense, did it?

“Wh-what’d I do?” he rasped. His grip relaxed and he stared at his friend’s face.

“What’d you do?” Steve echoed. He scrubbed at his eyes with his sleeve, and gave him a watery smile. “You went off to war and almost got your dumb ass killed.” It was much, much worse than that… Bucky didn’t understand. _So did you._ Steve’s hand drew back, and he covered Bucky’s anxiously wandering hand, squeezing his wrist to keep it still. “I thought you _were_ dead.” His voice faltered on the last two words. Bucky squinted, blinked.

“Thought you were bigger,” he said. The words sounded dumb as soon as they were out of his mouth.

“Always been this size, jerk.” Steve’s arm slipped around Bucky’s shoulder and rubbed his back gently. Just like that, Bucky was too tired to argue. He sagged forward, and Steve leaned in towards him to take the weight—what was alarmingly little weight, admittedly, for a man Bucky’s height. Bucky’s eyes closed and he tipped his head against his friend’s chest, letting Steve support him this time as he took one slow, shaky breath after another.

“Guess it wasn’t…” he mumbled.

“What?”

“Permanent.” A long, heavy silence followed. Steve’s hand stroked up and down his back.

“Nah… nothing’s permanent,” he said finally, quietly. His hand slipped around Bucky’s head, cradled it close against his chest. “It’s good to see you again. I was starting to miss all the stupid.” A shaky little laugh escaped him. His fingers curled around Steve’s wrist and squeezed. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. Maybe it’d been years. His eyes stung, and words stuck in his throat, but Steve could probably hear them in the way he clung silently to him. I _missed you too, punk._

 

* * * * * * *

People had changed since he left. Steve had taken some art classes and gotten himself a job as illustrator and sketch artist for a local paper. He appeared most days at the end of the day with something to add to dinner--bread, milk, something sweet occasionally. Becca, already married when Bucky left, had a two-month-old baby, incredibly tiny, not even old enough to roll over yet.

Bucky himself had changed more than any of the others, of course. Everything was alive, loud and vibrant and real, and just like it’d been when he left it. Like the world had continued to spin while he was frozen in time, trapped in a nightmare, in hell…. But now it was spinning too fast. Becca’s home felt alright most of the time. Everything outside of it was too loud, to bright, too genuine, all too much for him, like it was hemming him in on all sides, and there was no corner, no shelter, no space where he could back away from the bombardment. He felt sick and shaky and tired from it all. Becca’s home was warm and safe. It should have been soothing. It was everything their mother’s had been: warm, cluttered, busy, and safe, in Brooklyn--New York: home. And still on the bad days, it too held shadows, old faces, ghosts. A cracking sound, cars backfiring, something clattering to the street outside made his head snap around. A shout from outside was a warning. A scream was the sound of a someone hurt or dying, crying for help—a man beyond their reach, who would die alone with friends just feet away, impossible to approach under a rain of shells or bullets.  

Bucky slept on the floor sometimes; the bed or the couch felt like it was swallowing him alive at night. He hoarded blankets to create a sort of nest between the couch and the stove. He huddled around his food like it might be snatched away at any minute, jerked when someone came up on him unannounced. Sometimes words simply wouldn’t form in his mind, for an hour, for a day…

On better days, Bucky could watch little James while Becca caught some extra hours of sleep. On the worse days, she sat with Bucky, even when he was silent. She talked about the last year, about her husband Joseph, their home, the things that had changed since he left, old friends. She never talked about the war. She brought him food, determined to put the weight back on him, offered extra blankets, and Bucky’s shirts started coming back with the left sleeves neatly stitched up to keep the stub of his left arm warm.

“You always sent part of your pay home,” she reminded him firmly. “Let us help. We’re happy to. You’ll get back on your feet.” He wasn’t as sure of that as she. He had a little back pay from the army that she wouldn’t take a penny of.

“I’m useless,” he pointed out stiffly. “I can’t even tie my own damn shoe.”

“You’ll learn.” Becca passed him a bowl of green beans. “James likes you.”

“I can’t believe you named him James.” He ducked a bean pod thrown at his head. He’d tried to run his share of tasks around the house. They usually ended in anger and frustration. He’d been the breadwinner once. He barely left her house now with the cold setting in, still too weak and thin to risk getting sick or straining himself. Even when he did recover, the dock work wouldn’t suit him anymore, now he was no longer in one piece. Becca and Steve knew it.

“Just because _you_ don’t like it doesn’t mean it’s not a nice name.” She shrugged. They both knew why her firstborn had Bucky’s name. Neither of them was going to admit it out loud. “We’ll figure something out,” she said firmly. After all, Bucky wasn’t the only broken man to come home from the war. That went unsaid too.

************

The soft patter of snow or sleet on the windows was Bucky’s constant as winter set in, a strangely soothing soft noise that didn't make him flinch or cringe. It  The breeze whistled at the windows. A pot was boiling quietly on the stove—more warm, gentle food, a little more meat in it now that Bucky’s stomach could handle that better. Steve was cross-legged on the floor next to the warmth with his ever-present sketchbook, his blue eyes focused intently on the page, that fine crease showing between his brows.

“What about Krieschberg?” Bucky peered sideways at Steve and Becca on the couch nearby.

“What?” Steve asked. Bucky quickly tilted his head down and focused on Becca’s little son whose tiny fingers curled around Bucky’s thumb.

“Krieschberg, where my unit and I were taken after our capture..?” He looked up. Steve’s face hadn’t changed from that little puzzled frown. “Zola… HYDRA. The Howlies. The trenches. You don’t…” His voice cracked and he broke off. He’d ventured a couple of attempted questions. Steve insisted he’d always been this size… He’d been half afraid to ask. He was growing used to the open confusion and concern on people’s faces when he mentioned anything to do with Steve’s stint overseas. Did they just not want to talk about it? Had Steve never told them?

“Don’t what?” Steve prompted.

“You don’t remember it… any of it?” Used to it, but not hardened. It still made his stomach twist. Steve’s eyebrows drew together and he shook his head.

“I gathered a little from your letters." Steve gave him a puzzled look. "Ain't like they would let me get down in the trenches anyways." He _had_ though. He’d been on assignments with Bucky. It still didn’t make sense… “I went back one more time after you shipped out,” Steve said. “They found out about the other times—the lies on my applications. The recruiter who was there didn’t wanna deal with the legal situation. Figured I wasn’t any kind of real threat, so he tore up the last one and let me off with a warning not to try again. So, there you go, Buck... you were right. You’re the one who told me to quit tryin’ and get a job in a factory somewhere. I didn’t go collecting scrap metal… but I got myself a job back home. Like you said.” There was a note of bitterness in Steve’s voice that stung. _‘Why are you so keen to fight? There are so many important jobs…’_ He had told Steve that. Not that he felt any satisfaction at being right, but Steve was _alive_. That counted for something.

"I'm sorry," he offered quietly. Steve had stopped sketching. He was twirling the pencil between his fingers. He didn't respond to the apology. He tipped his head, staring up at a corner of the ceiling.

“Four months in, after I quit trying to enlist, you were declared MIA, December ’44. Battle of Azzano. Only a few men from your unit returned—less than fifty. You were assumed dead when you never turned up. They found you much later outside a camp called Berga, no dog tags or nothin’. S’why it took so long to identify you and get you home. But… most of the fellas who went to those camps died.” Soft, pudgy fingers tugged at Bucky’s thumb. He wiggled his thumb and let the baby pull on it as his eyes turned down towards James Proctor again.

“I don’t remember a camp,” Bucky said. "I was in a research facility in Austria. Krieschberg." He wiggled his index, and another little hand waved in the air until it bumped Bucky’s and grabbed on as well.

"Ain't where they found you, Buck," Steve said quietly. “Far as we know, you never went to Austria.” Bucky let the conversation fall flat, watching his nephew pull the hand down and suck on his finger. He didn’t want to ask further questions. It was hard to believe what Steve was telling him: that everything he remembered from the last several years was possibly… some kind of fabrication. Steve had stayed home all this time, and the tall, muscled man who wore Steve's face, had his memories... who had he been? Who could he be _but_ Steve? Asking seemed wrong. Bucky didn’t want to ruin this somehow: allow old, sick names or memories to violate the peace of the household, the smile on Becca’s face, the innocent tiny being who clung to Bucky’s fingers.

“Doesn’t matter,” Becca said at last. “You’re here now. They’ll give you your pay, and you’ll be formally discharged with your medal.” Becca’s hand squeezed his good shoulder.

“Another,” Steve said dryly. There was a hint of something dark in his eyes, a trace of strain in his voice. ‘ _Your work has been a gift to mankind.’_ Goosebumps crawled up Bucky’s arm, and a chill raced along his spine.

“Another?” he echoed. Steve’s eyes glinted.

“The first one was buried.” _Oh._ Bucky pulled his legs under himself and gently freed his hand from little James’ grasp.

“Bucky?” Becca stepped back and frowned at him. He brushed her hand gently off his shoulder got up.

“Need some air,” he murmured hoarsely.

It was strange how the place could be so familiar, and yet strange. The evening air, tinged with a hint of humidity, threatening more cold rain, stung his face. The cold sparked memories every time now, as if that name that rang in his ears at night were somehow the key to his trouble. _Winter._ There had been ice…. Cold air whipping across his face, slick, gloved hands fumbling for a grip on the metal. Steve shouting at him, shouting his name. Tears freezing on his eyelashes, the world a blur of pale color, hurtling past him in the frozen mountain pass. There'd been metal groaning, creaking under his grasp, a hand fumbling for his, stretching towards him, fingers spread, gloved, like his. Then one movement, one hand fumbling free of the metal rail and Steve was gone. Always gone. He could never hold onto him. Bucky was free-falling. Falling into ice and cold and darkness with Steve’s scream ringing in his ears.

The old bone-deep ache throbbed through his body as the cold seeped in, and his teeth ground hard to keep him from whimpering. He remembered how the metal arm used to hurt. It sent bolts of pain through the very socket of his shoulder. He used to wonder if the shoulder was even still there or if it was all metal. By now, he was used to living with the dull ache. He didn’t know what it would feel like to live without pain anymore.

Bucky’s body leaned into the chilly railing of the fire escape. So much hadn’t changed: the same sounds—cars sloshing through the slush on the street, a couple kids shouting somewhere a few buildings down, the same dank smells, the same pale lights glowing along the sidewalks as evening fell. There was a dark burn-mark on the edge of one rail: a spot where someone stubbed out cigarettes. It was as if nothing had happened. As if all those years since he left Brooklyn, left Steve, fell from the train, had his mind torn apart piece by piece… had never happened. And no one—not the nurses, not the military, and not even Steve talked about it.

Minutes. Hours. He could’ve been there all evening. He didn’t know. The sky paled, darkened, and the rays disappeared behind the adjoining building before the door behind him creaked and Steve’s footsteps gingerly approached. Bucky’s legs were folded under him, his head leaning on the cold metal. He ground his teeth, but Steve didn’t touch him or even talk. He only placed a small box between them, and Bucky tilted his head. _Luckys._ Where Steve had gotten a box of those, he couldn’t guess, but he took the offered cigarette gratefully, and he let Steve flick a match and light it for him.

“What’s wrong?” Steve asked the question quietly, but his eyes fixed intently on Bucky. A deep inhale from the cigarette and Bucky could almost feel the tension in his body uncoil. He was quiet a couple minutes before speaking again.

“You were there,” he said, feeling that tendril of fear twist in his gut as he spoke. “I remember that you used to give me the cigs from your rations… you never really learned to like the damn things.” He breathed in a couple of long, soothing drags. Bucky breathed out, and the smoke curled from his lips in little gusts that danced away in the breeze. The sleet had faded to a misty drizzle. It barely reached Bucky and Steve between the dark buildings. “We watched a sunset over a river, in France after a mission—you and me,” he added when Steve didn’t respond. “Sitting on the edge of a bridge, with the light playing across the water, orange and pink… You drew the bridge reflected in the river.” He fixed his eyes on the old burn mark on the rail, as if it were interesting.

“I wish I could’ve seen it,” Steve said finally. It felt like a knife in the gut: a gentle confirmation of the truth that was setting in unavoidably. “I probably drew a couple bridges and rivers around here,” Steve offered. Bucky sucked in another lungful, and the air seemed to freeze his lungs and throat as he did. The cold, the metal grate beneath him, the sound of Steve’s breathing beside him, the persistent stabbing pains from his left arm: that was his reality right now, in this moment. He couldn’t start to doubt it, or he’d go mad.

“You never went to war.” The words spoke themselves almost. Steve shifted and moved up beside him. His legs slipped through the rails and dangled. Bucky could see his toes at the end of the threadbare socks he wore. Holes. Steve always had holes in his socks. Rather than learn to dark, he stuffed the ends of his shoes with newspaper.

“No,” Steve confirmed softly. “They wouldn’t take me. I tried.” A pause. Another puff of smoke curling and fading away in the air before Bucky’s lips. “About a year in,” Steve said slowly, “After they determined you weren't coming back, the army sent us a letter home—came with two men who broke the news. Condolences and all that… Only about forty members of your unit survived. And you… There was… was nothing left of you, Buck. They said you were gunned down, either killed or captured except those last few who escaped. They couldn’t recover bodies. There wasn’t a damn thing to send home. No personal items. Not a uniform or a… a ratty Bible or your tags… just a flag and some goddamn scraps of cloth you never touched in your life—medals for bravery or something. Like that was s’posed to make us feel better. You went over there and… nothin’ came back… Becca had some service held at the church, but it was just a memorial. There wasn’t even a coffin… I couldn’t…” Steve broke off. Bucky turned his head. Slender fingers clenched around the bars of the fire escape. Steve was hunched over, staring at his feet, shivering. Bucky's cigarette dropped to the metal grating, forgotten. He wound his arm around Steve, burying his face in his hair. Seconds later, Steve shuffled back from the rails and crawled closer to lean against Bucky’s chest. His eyes were burning as he rubbed his friend’s back a little. There was nothing to say to that. He knew better than anyone that him being home now didn’t put right everything that’d happened in between. He waited until his throat didn’t hurt so much before he tried speaking again;

“I can’t stay here forever.” In response, Steve’s arms tightened with surprising force.

“You’re not going anywhere, jerk,” he muttered into Bucky’s shirt. Bucky huffed softly at his protest.

“With Becca, I mean,” he said and straightened up, turning his eyes away so Steve could scrub the telltale tears from his face in semi-privacy. The blond leaned over to bump Bucky with his shoulder.

“You can come stay with me if you need a change of scenery,” he said. Bucky pursed his lips. His eyes flicked back towards Steve as his friend’s smile grew. “Wouldn’t have to do much," Steve said. "Shine my shoes, maybe take out the trash.” A slight smile crept across Bucky’s face, and his fingers settled over the back of Steve’s neck to squeeze.

“Punk.” His heart warmed at the way Steve’s face lit up.

“Jerk,” Steve responded with a smile that reached his eyes at last. God, Steve’s voice had followed him every step of the way to the dock when he finally deployed… _‘Don’t win the war till I get there.’_ He hadn’t won anything. But he’d come home. Bucky jostled him gently, and his arm draped around Steve’s shoulders to hug him close. He got the message loud and clear. _You don’t have to do this alone._

“I’d like that.”

**Author's Note:**

> To anyone who may stumble across my work, it is mostly written (and fully plotted out), and therefore it WILL be finished. However, I'm a busy lady who writes for a living and therefore takes her time on spare time writing projects. Bear with me, friends. I will <3 you forever if you comment. (And it may encourage me to write more :) )


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